


You, Your Wolf, and Everything in Between

by Rinari7



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alien Biology, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Other, POV Second Person, Self-Loathing (on the Doctor's Part), Sentient TARDIS, Telepathy, Timey-Wimey, the TARDIS is polyamorous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 23:31:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14555976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinari7/pseuds/Rinari7
Summary: She’s taken so much about you in stride already, and now your beautiful Wolf allows you to share this with her, too.





	You, Your Wolf, and Everything in Between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinknevertalks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinknevertalks/gifts).



> She's the one who gave me this idea in the first place. It's morphed into something I absolutely adore and I'm so grateful. This one is definitely hers.
> 
> Also many many thanks to chiaroscuroverse, who helped me iron out all the little things and reassured me that the world at large should see this.

This pink-and-yellow girl, the one who is and will be your Wolf, pushes open the door to her room, and exhales slowly, with a broad grin. “I guess this is it.”

She glances up. She always does, when she’s thinking about you, though you’re not quite sure why.  _Guess she knew all along I was gonna be staying_ , flashes across her mind, less in words, more a brief insight, but nonetheless perfectly comprehensible to you. It’s only humans who need  _words_  for everything, after all. (Yet the way she’s almost immediately taken up your Thief’s use of female pronouns, his acknowledgement of your sentience, is one more thing that has endeared her to you.)

Her backpack — ugly, bulky thing, you’ll have to provide her with some interdimensional pockets soon… unless… no, she’s afraid to lose things in them — she sets on the floor in front of her dresser, and begins to transfer her clothing.

—

“You ought to get some sleep,” your Thief says, as the Wolf yawns, slumped into the jumpseat.

“I am a bit tired. Have you got a couch or something I could crash on?” She stands, looking around the console room.

“Couch?” he scoffs. “Rose Tyler, we’ve got dozens of bedrooms for you to choose from!”

You nudge him.  _Are you sure she wants one?_  It’s a matter of politeness, and your Thief needs reminding sometimes.

He hesitates a moment, at that. “Unless you’d prefer a couch, of course. We’ve got plenty of those, too.”

She shakes her head, an amused part-smile on her face. “Yeah, of course I’d like a proper bed, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Your Thief’s instruction is instant:  _make her whatever she wants_. You roll your eyes, and start planning what a bedroom for both of them should look like.

Rose’s thoughts drift across your perception, idle, some hopeful, some hesitant.  _A little pink,but not too much, something grown-up. Will it be all grand? — but I’d be nervous if it looked like it belonged in a museum. Just as long as it’s soft and warm…_

You know just the thing.

“This is your door,” your Thief tells her. Her inhale as she opens it is sharp, soft, delight tempered by exhaustion, but you revel in it all the same.

—

Something buried far down inside her backpack she dwells upon, takes her time drawing it out, something almost hesitant in the tension in her shoulders. The object is pink, oblong silicone, and you place a few batteries in her nightstand drawer as she places her backpack in the back of her closet.

Exhaling, loudly, almost a sigh, with another glance upward, she places it on the dresser and shucks her jacket. “Nothing for it.”  _If she’s in my head anyways…_

The door she locks, and her shirt she strips off as well, letting it fall to the floor. She cups her own breasts through her bra, tongue darting out over her lips. Her apprehensive attention shifts to you for a moment, before she forces it away. You don’t see why most humans are so strange about this.

—

Your Wolf seems tense, as she closes the door behind your Thief and eyes the pyjamas you’ve left folded at the foot of the bed. “You really do get into my head…” she murmurs, as she fingers the soft blue flannel she’d envisioned, and it’s neither a question nor an accusation. She’s adjusting.

“It’s a bit odd, you know. That I just have to think something and it happens. Not even really think it, just want it.” She folds her arms over her stomach and looks around.

Would she rather you not try to please her? She seems distressed, somewhat, conflicted, and you transmit this to your Thief. You can do little to comfort her, right now, you know from future experience. That one incident with the one girl, when you try to talk to her in her head in a moment such as this and she starts screaming…

He knocks on the door, leans his forehead against the corridor side to speak through the wood. “Are you all right, Rose? I know the TARDIS can be a bit overwhelming at first, but I promise there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Your Wolf starts, a brief moment of wonder flashing through her, as he comes in the perfect moment; she’d been hoping for this, too. She moves towards the door herself, but leaves it closed, some sort of shield for her desperate vulnerability. “It’s just… I’ve still got to get used to your ship being in my head, just… creating things because I want them.”

“You don’t want her to?” Already, you hear the heavy breath behind your Thief’s tone, the fear of losing her already, not fully realized.

“It’s nice,” your Wolf says, and she speaks the truth a little wondrously as she discovers it for herself in that moment. “It’s just, odd. Knowing someone else besides me is in my head. This ship is alive, isn’t it?” It’s no question; for all she may not have thought you are, not before, she knows it now, without being told.

“Yes, she is very much alive.” He swallows, lays his ear against the door. “Is that a problem?”  _Please let it not be…_  he pleads, more to himself than to you — and she can’t hear him.

“She’s not gonna tell anyone what I’m thinking, is she?” But you already sense her building trust, implicit, the only thing that keeps you from whistling indignantly.

“Of course not!” He is indignant enough on your behalf. “Neither she nor I would ever infringe upon your privacy like that.” And he may as well be swearing an oath, for all the intent behind it. “She’ll tell me if you’re in danger or in distress, but nothing more, not what you’re actually thinking.”

“Then I guess it’s not a problem.” She exhales, slowly, and turns back towards the bed. She needs time for herself, now, to let all of this settle in. Humans and their tiny flexible minds — hers is more easily broadened than most, but then she is and will be your Wolf. “Good night, Doctor.”

It’s not really night. “Sleep well, Rose. Call if you need me.”

“Are you gonna hear me through all these winding corridors?” There’s a laugh in her voice.

You promise with and through him, “The TARDIS will make sure I hear.”

She nods. “All right then.”

A moment, he lingers, then leaves. As if she can sense him even without your help, she waits until after he’s left on the other side of the door to curl her fingers underneath the hem of her t-shirt.

_God, there’s a sentient spaceship all around me, that’s gonna see me naked._

“Do you mind just, not looking?” she asks the ceiling of her room.

You shrug, and turn your attention away, insofar as you can. She’s inside you — of course you’re still aware of her, but you try. (She changes as fast as possible, takes off her bra, but leaves her knickers on underneath the pyjamas.)

—

She moves smoothly now, no haste in it, as she unfastens her bra and lets it drop to the floor. (She’s never been neat, not like some. You cherish how comfortable your Wolf has always been with you.) Brushing her thumbs over her nipples, she bites her lip as they pebble, as she remembers the vanilla-tinted scent of this Doctor’s leather jacket and the first threads of arousal weave their way through her.

Then her thoughts flash to you again, as she drops her hands to the fly on her jeans, and she stills.  _Get over yourself. This is never gonna feel like home if you can’t wank. You’ve been naked in here before._  With another glance toward the ceiling, she argues with herself,  _Yeah, but this is different…_

With a sigh, she bends down to pick up her discarded shirt, intending to put it on again.  _I wouldn’t want some random girl wanking uninvited in my bed either, never mind while I could see._

It’s sweet, in a way, her concern, but you can really only sigh. Humans and their silly hang-ups. You dim the lights slightly — there is something called “mood lighting,” yes? You hope you’re doing it right. You want her to feel comfortable.

Her features tense in a grimace.  _Of course the TARDIS knows._  “Is that a yes or a no?”

Sometimes they can be so thick… You flip through your music catalogue, twenty-first century — how are you supposed to know what qualifies as “mood music”? Accompaniment to sexually explicit media, perhaps? That should work.

It’s slow-ish, a little jazzy, with a subtle, insistent beat, not really complex or skillful enough for you to call “music,” but you suppose it’s fairly pleasant nonetheless.

Yet, a few moments after you begin to play it in her room, she holds up both hands flat, palms out, her cheeks flushing a lovely shade of pink. “All right, I’m glad you’re okay with this, just please no porno music!”

You shut it off, allowing silence to fall in her room again. Regret or awkwardness are alien concepts to you, but she’s uncomfortable now and you wish she weren’t. Her movements are tense, a little jerky, as she unceremoniously divests herself of the rest of her clothing, grabs her vibrator, and climbs into her bed. The large, fluffy comforter she pulls up to her chin, then, in a fit of defiant reason, tosses back.  _It’s not like she can’t see me underneath the blanket, probably._  “This is like the first time I set out to have a wank and couldn’t stop thinking about my mum being in the next room.”

You let out an indignant squawk at that.  _I am not your mother!_

You’re not sure how much of it gets through (for she is not yet your Wolf, and you miss that connection) but it seems as though some of it does, because she relaxes a little, exhaling slowly, and smiling, brief and a little wry though it is. “S’pose I could always pretend it was like that time —”  _Mickey wanted to watch me touch myself_ , she is about to say. The thought saddens you. Do you truly disturb her so, that she must pretend you are anyone else? In this, you can’t tell how she feels, odd excitement and apprehension all swirling together.

“But there’s not much sense in that,” she half-laughs, a little pained. Mickey makes her feel guilty. “You are what you are, and — you really don’t mind?”

You wish there were some way you could speak more directly with her right now. Instead, you play two bars of the “porno music” again.

She laughs, for real now, a little incredulous and a little self-conscious. “All right. I get it. You’re good with this.”

—

Jack is just slightly psychic enough to ping off your consciousness, a courteous  _?_  as he stretches out on his bed and begins to palm his cock through his boxers.

 _:)_ , you reassure him. You can’t deny you’ve always been curious about this aspect of having a flesh chassis.

Jack grins, and rolls his hips. Oh.  _Oh_ , you realize, he’s putting on a show, he  _likes_ the idea of you watching…

You lick your lips and pay attention. Jack will always be so much fun.

—

A sudden thought occurs to your Wolf, and she swallows. “Do you like watching? Is this, like, a thing you usually do?”

No, it isn’t, despite whatever you (will) have (had) with Jack Harkness or River Song or Bill Potts or even that single unique encounter with your Thief… There isn’t a signal you can think of to communicate this to her, not one she’d understand… red, stop, cold, blue, wrong, “X”? You have the sense turning the temperature down would give her the wrong idea, and for a moment you contemplate briefly painting a large red X across her mirror, but that timeline doesn’t look particularly promising either…

There might be a song — of course there is. A little gleefully, you let a chorus of teenagers passionately echo, “No! No no no, stick to the status quo-ouoh!” Not the most subtle, but it gets the main point across.

Your Wolf smiles. “All right.” She wriggles herself into a more comfortable position, resting her head on the pillow and brushing her fingers across the velvet duvet cover. She’s fond of this texture, of the way she can mold it with her fingers, of the way it soothes against her skin. “Would be nice if you could talk to me a little more directly,” she says, with a longing twist of a smile. “I mean, you can tell what I’m thinking, and I can’t even hear your voice. —Not, I mean I don’t even know if you’ve got a voice, I suppose.”  _I can’t hear what you want to communicate to me_ , she means, and you smile, softly, a little sadly.

—

 _So this is what you sound like_ , she marvels, at your high, telepathic trills she suddenly understands, as your souls merge and your vortex heart shines out of her human eyes. Bad Wolf, the girl before whom fearless killers cower, the goddess a coward dares to kiss.

She-you waste no time in turning to the matter at hand — you-she who hold all of time and yet still so little.  _Take me back to the Doctor._

You’ve already set the course.

—

“Could you, like, put stuff in my mind?” she asks, her brow wrinkling, “Or would I just not know if you’ve put them there? Like I didn’t know everything was being translated in my head until the Doctor told me.”

Your cultural database provides the answer for you again; you allow Bublé to croon in your place, a little sorrowful, hesitant, longing, “Well… You don’t know me…”

Her expression twists, sadly, a little pained, and she nods in understanding. “I can’t say I really like it, but… You’re already in my head anyways, aren’t you? So I guess I trust you. If there’s something you need me to know, you c’n just… make me know it.” She lifts one shoulder. “Or if there’s anything you want me to know. I suppose it’s not like I’d know if you did.”

You shake your head. Her trust is not misplaced, and you let her know this. You don’t manipulate anyone’s thoughts, not unless it’s absolutely necessary… or they give you permission to.

She relaxes, a little, offering just that permission, however hesitant, as she presses her lips together in a tight smile. “Just… don’t tell the Doctor what I think about sometimes.”  _That I think about him that way_ , she means, and you inwardly curse human hesitation about bloody feelings. But you honor her request — after all, she knows (will know) if you don’t.

—

Your Thief takes his cock in his hand, squeezes as it expands to mold itself to his fingers, as the tendrils at the tip curl back down over his fist. His seminal fluid makes him slick, messy, soothing the frantic friction he subjects himself to, in an attempt to tame the desperation roiling inside him. Rhythmically, he squeezes himself, to simulate the female orgasm, as his tendrils undulate searchingly, seeking moist walls to stroke and please. Without a partner, this is only half of a pleasure for him.

He turns what little enjoyment this does afford him to pain as he treats himself brutally, translating his self-loathing to the speed of his hand, the tightness of his grip. He doesn’t deserve her, he’s so certain. You wish you could convince him otherwise, but your bloody Thief won’t  _listen_.

Finally, he spurts across his bedsheets, her name a ragged cry across his lips. If only she were there to hear.

He looks straight at you, unabated storm in his mind’s eyes.  _Don’t you tell her._

—

It would be so easy, to let her know that all she’d have to do is ask him to her bed, and he’d fall to his knees and worship her there. But you don’t.

Instead, you gently suggest what he might look like, “down there,” as she would put it. He’s sizeable enough compared to a human male, if you’re not mistaken, and this idea she readily latches on to.

 _Wonder where that came from, though_  — And then she  _knows_ , and she looks up at the ceiling and her cheeks flush such a pretty shade of pink again.

You smile, and plant the idea that maybe he’s…  _different_ … in some way or another… She closes her eyes and bites her lip as her fingers curl around fistfuls of her sheet.

Then a sliver of concern arises in her, whether the Doctor would want you telling, showing her any of this — you quell it immediately. She  _has_  to know you’d never betray him, not truly, never not in his best interests. Your Wolf relaxes a little more, so, so gratefully.

—

Your Thief knows enough now not to inquire why you’ve suddenly double-shielded her bedroom from his awareness. He wants to respect her privacy, he does so very much — but it doesn’t stop him from wondering what she looks like as her fingers slide between her legs, as she pinches her nipple, what sounds she’d make if he —

He slams a door shut on those musings, fiercely, thick steel, and he boxes them up and pushes them away into a corner. Mortified, paralyzed, defiant, he stands before you.  _I need…_

You reach out, to soothe him, to tease back out that corner of his mind that knows there should be no shame in this. But he jerks away from you, betrayal burning in his eyes, nigh indistinguishable from the lust hovering just below. _I need you to break something, so I can focus on fixing it._

You refuse.

His gaze turns harder.  _Fine then. I’ll be in the library, figuring out how to unstick that stuck chameleon circuit you’re so fond of._

He can certainly try. Those books he won’t be finding any time soon.  _That won’t do a thing to lower your hormone levels._

 _You never know until you try._  He stalks off among the shelves.

Good. Let him simmer.

—

Her curiosity spikes, as she lets her hand wander over the sensitive skin of her stomach.  _If he’s not human, what does he —_  She bites her lip and cuts herself off.  _His bits aren’t my business._

You laugh, and show her. Better than that, you offer her the sensation of him pulsing under her palm, the soft rhythm of his double heartbeats beneath silken flesh, tendrils gently tickling her fingers. She giggles, and in her mind trails her fingertips along its length, mimicking the motion with her fingers atop the sheets.  _She wants me to know, so I won’t be surprised…_  you nudge across her thoughts, and that sends heat flooding her body, sends her free hand wandering between her legs, brushing over her vulva, featherlight.

 _Am I — are he and I really gonna — ?_  It’s hesitant, almost a little shy, and so full of hope your heart leaps with it.

It’s not a fixed point, as much as you might wish to make it one. All you can offer is,  _I hope so_.

—

His lips on hers-yours, a little chapped and bittersweet. He wraps his arms around her-you, and this is the placetime you-she have always longed to be.

This, you fix — that much you can still do for her, that in every universe your Thief kisses Bad Wolf, filled with wonder, out of sheer love.

Then he is drawing you and her apart, drawing you out of her and into himself, and the world turns gold.

—

She’s mostly occupied herself now, fed on the sensation of him in the palm of her hand, imagining how might feel inside her as he swells, his weight atop her and his tongue on that spot on her neck… Her own imagination suffices perfectly, for this; she doesn’t need you anymore.

Yet still, you linger, unwilling or perhaps unable to completely draw away. You’ve done this to her, it sparks across your mind, as she tenses, as she writhes, as she circles her middle finger around her clitoris; at least part of this is because of you. The idea satisfies you somehow, and you find yourself latching onto it — much as she did earlier, you acknowledge wryly to yourself.

Her small, muffled moans are the closest thing to music you’ve heard in too long. There’s a sort of electric charge building in your bones, one that feels like solar winds and rift energy and stray quarks, pleasant, energizing tension.

You close your eyes and offer her the barest brush of fingers over the delicate skin of her inner wrist — not the large, slightly calloused touch of your Thief, but someone else’s: that of the body you might (will) (do) have, if (when) you were (are) a human.

The sensation shocks her, and she cries out. Her entire body jerks as she orgasms; it looks painful, but she radiates soaring bliss. The tension in your core snaps, sending you high, only for the blink of an eye. Then you settle back into your chassis again, wriggling slightly, rattling your frame comfortably, with a delighted sigh.

Your Wolf hums contentedly, and finally opens her eyes, glancing at the ceiling, the beginnings of that tongue-touched smile she usually offers your Thief playing on her lips. “You know, I’m hardly a lesbian, but you and I should definitely do that again sometime.”

You laugh.  _Remember you only have to want it, and it’s yours._

Your Thief is frantically trying to get your attention.  _What happened?_

It’s not that you can’t split your focus, but he is intruding and you’re a bit cross.  _I’m fairly certain I just had an orgasm_ , you inform him curtly.

 _I just had sex with a ship_ , she realizes,  _I think_. Slowly, she exhales.

He closes his mouth, swallows, and sits back down, eyes wide, brow wrinkled.  _I didn’t know you could do that._

There are a lot of things he doesn’t know about you, still. You didn’t know you could, either.  _She’s a bit of a miracle-worker_ , you finally settle on as a response.

She grins — again, so quick to adjust, and you’re so, so happy with your Wolf — and heads to shower.

A flash of jealousy, white-hot, and then he pushes that into the corner with certain of his other thoughts of her.  _I’m happy for you._

You simply shoot him an arch look.  _You’re just cockblocking yourself, you know. She can’t say yes if you don’t ask._

You turn on the shower for her, at exactly the temperature you know she wants. She mouths a  _thank you!_  and steps in.

He glares at you, again.  _I wouldn’t take advantage of her like that._  And her thinking he were demanding “payment” for taking her along is only the first of his worries.

 _Just tell her it’s a request, not a demand._  You shrug.

He frowns.  _It’s not that simple._

 _Why not?_  You shake your head. Flesh beings…

He pushes the tangled ball of impressions and cultural context and interpersonal dynamics and personal insecurities at you, a jumbled emotional mess. Then he sets his jaw and studies  _Care and Maintenance of Your TARDIS_ , seeing nothing while you process it all.

You sigh and slump against your wooden walls.


End file.
